“Sir!” the Control Room talker said. “Mr. Cohen reports two sets of screws bearing one two zero and one two four. Both sets of screws seem to be moving away from us slowly.”
“They’re searching, the other two destroyers,” Hinman said. “Searching out to the east!”
“Another set of screws, twin screws, very heavy sound!” the talker said. “Bearing two five zero. Big ship. Coming very fast and picking up speed! Mr. Cohen says the ship is closing on us, sir!”
In the After Torpedo Room Billy-Joe “Spook” Hernandez, Torpedoman First Class, narrowed his large brown eyes as the telephone talker in the After Room repeated the conversations in the Control Room.
“Son of a bitch has heard us!” Hernandez said. “Nineteen years in this fucking Navy, twelve years in submarines and now I’m gonna get depth charged for the first time!” He moved suddenly and snatched one of the big Y-wrenches used to open the torpedo tube outer doors from an empty lower bunk. He handed it to an engine room oiler who was lying in an upper bunk.
“Make love to this son of a bitch, hug it, don’t let it hit nothin’ and make a noise if that Jap bastard drops charges on us! Listen to that son of a bitch come!”
The sound of the Fubuki’s twin screws was drumming at the Mako’s thin hull as the destroyer neared. Captain Hinman gripped the edge of the chart table in his hands, his eyes turning upward.
“He knows we’re here or he doesn’t,” he said in a low voice. “And we’re going to find out damned soon!”
The sound of the destroyer’s screws increased until it was a deafening roar and then began to recede.
“Mr. Cohen says the destroyer did not drop any charges!” the telephone talker said suddenly.
“How in the hell would he know in all that racket?” Hinman muttered. “But if he did drop we’d know it by now.” He turned to the chart and the plotting board.
“He must figure there’s more than one of us here,” Hinman said to Brannon. “He’s going to gather up his one sheep he’s got left and get it the hell out of here with one of his other tin cans, I’d guess. Then he’ll come back and try to find us. So let’s go back to where we came from. He shouldn’t guess we’d do that.
“Work out the course and give it to Mr. Simms.” He moved to one side so Brannon could work at the small chart table. Hinman and Brannon turned as the telephone talker cleared his throat.
“Mr. Cohen reports that the ship that went over us has slowed and there’s a lot of pinging bearing one seven zero.” Hinman nodded.
“Mr. Cohen says one ship is pinging and that he has three sets of screws on a course zero one five relative, and they’re moving away from us.”
“He’s formed up with his tanker and one of his tin cans and left one can to search for us,” Hinman said. He grinned suddenly. “We guessed right!”
Brannon nodded. “That Nate Cohen is one hell of a man on the sound gear, Captain.”
“I don’t have to be told the capabilities of my officers, Mike,” Captain Hinman’s voice was low. He turned and went through the water-tight door to the Wardroom.
The Mako crept silently through the sea, blind at 150 feet but able to hear. In the Forward Torpedo Room sweating men worked in the stifling, close heat to turn the two big sound heads that projected beneath Mako’s hull by hand.
“Son of a bitch doesn’t care if we all get a hernia,” Ginty grunted to Dusty Rhodes. “Fucking Kike officer on them earphones ain’t heard shit for an hour. Why the fuck doesn’t the Old Man go back to hydraulic power?”
“He thinks you need the exercise,” Rhodes said. “Stand clear and let me have a turn at that back-breaker. Take five.”
“Fucking Jap could hear me puffing for air if he’d listen,” Ginty grunted and slumped against a torpedo rack. “You wait, when the Old Man does give the order to belay this heavin’ around and go back to hydraulic power he’s gonna want the fucking tubes reloaded and I’ll bet a case of beer that he’s gonna want that done without making any noise! How the fuck do you reload four fish up here without making no noise?”
“You do it quietly,” Rhodes grunted.
Another two hours crept by with the team of Lieut. Nathan Cohen, USNR, and Billy Stratton, Radioman Second Class, USN, listening to the sounds picked up by the slowly turning sound heads and finding nothing of interest to report. Cohen looked around at a touch on his shoulder.
“Still getting nothing, Mr. Cohen?”
“Nothing of interest, Captain. There’s a lot of shrimp on the bottom but they’re not causing us any trouble. I heard a whale a while ago, blowing on the surface. That might be a sign that the surface is clear of ships. Whales are generally pretty shy.” Hinman nodded and turned away. He went over to the chart table and looked at the ship’s track Brannon had drawn in. He looked at his watch.
“It’s been three hours and five minutes since we had any sound of the other ships. Let’s go back to hydraulic power, Mr. Simms. Pass the word to stand easy at Battle Stations but maintain silence about the decks. Galley can serve coffee to each compartment. I’ll give you the word on breakfast a little later. I want a report from Sound every five minutes. Mike, bring your charts into the Wardroom.”
Lieut. Peter Simms issued the orders he had been given and turned to the Torpedo and Gunnery Officer, Lieut. Don Grilley. “That’s one hell of a man, that Captain!”
“Depends on your definition of a man,” Grilley said softly. “He’s efficient. He knows his job. But there are times when he turns as cold as a dry hole in an oil field. Hard man to figure out. If that makes him a hell of a naval officer I won’t argue. I’m just an unemployed geologist.”
“And a damned Reservist, a feather merchant!” Simms said. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. Grilley took in his aggressive stance and grinned.
“I’ll say one thing for the Old Man,” he said, his own smile hardening. “We gave him good fish and exploders that worked and he’s one hell of a good shot!” He turned his back on Simms and took a cup of coffee offered to him by one of the watch standers.
Mike Brannon spread his charts out on the Wardroom table and smiled his thanks at Tommy Thompson, the Officers’ Cook, who had put a cup of coffee in front of him. He spooned sugar into the coffee and poured canned milk into it until the liquid turned a creamy yellow.
“We’ll be back at our submerged patrol line along the coast in two hours and ten minutes, Captain,” Brannon said. Hinman nodded and reached for the sound-powered telephone on the bulkhead.
“This is the Captain speaking,” he said softly to the talkers manning the telephones. “I want to see the Chief of the Boat in the Wardroom.”
Dusty Rhodes pulled aside the green baize curtain that served as a door to the Wardroom and stepped into the Wardroom and stood at attention.
“At ease, Chief,” Hinman said. — How long will it take to reload the tubes in both rooms? I want it done with no noise.” Rhodes thought a moment, his eyes half-closed.
“Twenty minutes, sir. Give or take a couple of minutes.”
“Can we do both rooms at once or would you rather do one at a time with you in charge of each operation?”
“Both at once, sir. Spook is a good man back aft. If I tell him no noise he won’t make any noise.”
“Ginty?”
“Ginty is touchy but not the way Hernandez is. If I go up forward and heave around Ginty will think he’s in charge but with me there he won’t holler and stomp and yell at all hands.”
Hinman nodded and reached for the telephone.
“Control Room. This is the Captain. Tell Mr. Simms that we’re going to reload four tubes forward and two aft. When he’s made his weight compensations ask Mr. Simms to tell the Chief of the Boat to start the reload.” He turned to Rhodes.
“Control Room will give you the word when to start. Do it as quickly and as quietly as possible.”
Eighteen minutes later Rhodes knocked softly on the bulkhead of the Wardroom, pu
shed aside the curtain and stepped in. He was panting and his shirt was black with sweat.
“Reload completed, sir. All torpedo tubes ready for firing. Gyro spindles engaged. Depth set four feet all fish. Speed setting is high and speed spindles disengaged. Request permission to shift the outboard fish in the Forward Room to the reload position and to stack the empty torpedo racks outboard when we can, sir. We can’t do that without making some noise.”
“I’ll give you the word on that later, Chief.” Hinman sat back in his chair. “How does the crew feel?”
“Pretty happy, sir. The lookouts who were topside during the action have been telling all about it ever since we began standing easy on Battle Stations. It’s not like the first patrol, sir. Crew feels pretty cocky.”
“Tell them to get over that!” Hinman said. “We were damned lucky we didn’t get depth-charged. Next time we might not be lucky.”
“Yes, sir,” Rhodes said. He backed out of the Wardroom and went aft to the Crew’s Mess in the After Battery Compartment and drew a cup of coffee. Ginty was standing near the coffee urn.
“What’d the Old Man say about the fucking reload, Chief? Ain’t any ship in the fucking submarine Navy can reload four fish forward and two aft in eighteen minutes without making one fuckin’ bit of noise! What did he say about the way those exploders worked?” He stood, balancing his massive body on the balls of his feet, his scarred face set in a grin, ready to accept the plaudits that Rhodes would pass on to him from the Captain, ready to shrug off the praise of the crew members sitting with their coffee cups at the mess tables.
“He didn’t say anything,” Rhodes said, sipping at his cup.
“Bastard!” Ginty rumbled. “The fucker is too busy figurin’ out what kind a medal he’ll get! That son of a bitch has sure changed a lot since we put this shit-kickin’ ship in commission!”
“So have you,” Rhodes said. “First time I ever saw you put fish in the tubes you didn’t wind up so hoarse you couldn’t talk!”
“Shit!” Ginty said. His eyes flicked around the crowded compartment. “Man don’t have to yell when he’s got a reload crew trained like I train ‘em and when he’s got the Chief of the Boat pushin’ his flat ass off against a fish!” He bent his head and ducked through the water-tight door, grinning to himself as he heard a gust of laughter sweep around the mess compartment. He padded forward to his torpedo room, scowling at the green curtain at the Wardroom door as he passed it.
Captain Hinman drained his coffee cup and looked at his watch.
“I want to go up and have a look through the periscope,” he said. “Mike, I want you to take the dive. I want sixty-five feet. Not one inch higher.”
Brannon drew a deep breath. “Skipper, here we go, my big Irish nose and me. Were standing easy at Battle Stations and Pete Simms is the Battle Station Diving Officer. I’ll stand by him when we go up but I don’t want to take over his Battle Station, sir, not unless you insist on it.”
Captain Hinman studied the troubled face of his Executive Officer. When he spoke his voice was flat, level.
“Mr. Brannon, I am the Captain. I know what you’re thinking about, why you spoke up. I’d suggest that if you are practicing for the time when you get your own command — if I so recommend — I suggest you do your practicing somewhere else!”
Brannon dropped his eyes.
“Aye, aye, sir. To sixty-five feet. Not one inch higher!” Captain Hinman nodded and left the Wardroom.
Chapter 5
Mako surfaced in the first full dark of the night and wallowed sluggishly on a course southward down the coast of Borneo, her bull nose pointed in the direction of the harbor in Balikpapan. Lieut. Nathan Cohen leaned his elbows on the teak rail of the bridge and stared through his binoculars at the mountainous bulk of the island.
“I never noticed before,” he said to the quartermaster on watch. “At night. The mountain over there looks as if it’s only about five hundred yards away! I’d swear we were going to run aground if I didn’t know better!”
“Yes, sir,” the quartermaster said. “But the chart shows that we’re almost three miles off the beach. But it does look awful close, yes sir.”
“Those little spots of light on the beach,” Cohen said. “They must be fires, probably cooking fires. I wonder what kind of people they are? What food are they cooking?” He heard Captain Hinman’s footsteps as he moved from the cigaret deck into the bridge and stood beside him.
“I find it strange, Captain; there are people over there around those fires who have no knowledge of our presence here, our mission. People who probably don’t even know there’s a war going on and who don’t care at all about who wins or loses.”
“I know, Nate,” Hinman said quietly. “I stand up here at night and I wonder about the same things. It’s a very strange world. Those people around those little fires probably have their own enemies, fight their own wars, live and die and we don’t know anything about that, either.
“I have to go below and write up a contact report and the action report for the Staff at Pearl. I’ll call you to encode when I’m ready. Keep a sharp lookout.” He went down the hatch and Cohen turned and began to study the horizon through his glasses. An hour went by and he jumped as the bridge speaker rasped tinnily.
“Bridge. Executive Officer requests permission to come up.”
“Permission granted, sir,” Cohen answered. Mike Brannon hauled himself up through the hatch and took a deep breath of the night air.
“Skipper wants you in the Wardroom, Nate. I’ll take the deck. You don’t have to hurry; stop and get some coffee when you’re through if you want.”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” Cohen said. “We’re on course one seven five, speed ... but you know all that, you’re the navigator.”
He turned to go below but Brannon’s hand stopped him.
“Always go through the whole routine, Nate,” Brannon said gently. “Course, engines on propulsion or battery charge, state of the battery charge, what fuel oil tanks are on the line, state of the diving trim, conditions of the ship, any changes of course in the night order book, the whole thing.”
Cohen felt the hot rush of blood to his face and hoped Brannon wouldn’t notice in the dark. He obediently rattled off the ritual demanded of all officers who turn over the OOD watch to another officer and went below to the Wardroom.
“Sit down, Nate,” Captain Hinman said. He shoved two pieces of paper across the felt-topped table.
“Two messages. The first is a report of all the shipping we saw in the harbor at Balikpapan. Send that message in the usual code for reporting on shipping.
“I want the second message sent in plain language. I want every submarine skipper on station who hears us to know what we did and exactly how we did it!”
Cohen studied the second message.
While observing ships in harbor at Balikpapan from a submerged position in the harbor mouth Mako saw a Fubuki-class destroyer leader accompanied by three destroyers leave harbor and begin submarine search to the north of the harbor.
At twenty-three hundred hours Mako saw a three-ship oil tanker convoy leave harbor and proceed on a northerly course escorted by three destroyers. The Fubuki ranged ahead of the convoy.
Mako took position to the west of the convoy and launched a night surface torpedo attack, closing to six hundred yards before opening fire with the forward torpedo tubes. Fired four torpedoes from the forward tubes at two tankers. Two hits on first ship. One hit on second ship. Both targets exploded and burned fiercely. Fired two torpedoes from stern tubes at a destroyer and got one hit. Torpedo blew entire bow off destroyer, which sank immediately.
Commanding Officer, U.S.S. Mako formally advises Staff that Mark VI exploders were modified at his express orders to deactivate magnetic feature of exploders and to insure that exploder ring would unseat at four-pound impact. All torpedoes were set to run at four-foot depth in a calm sea. These actions, while contrary to published directives, were deemed essential
and necessary to the war effort in view of disastrous experience with Mark VI exploders on Mako’s first war patrol. Commanding Officer states it is his belief that the aggressive attack on the surface at night confused the enemy and resulted in no repeat no retaliatory action. Mako is now on station as per patrol orders. If another opportunity presents itself for aggressive action against the enemy within the patrol area Mako requests permission to so attack.
Lieut. Cohen looked up from the message. “Sir, you want this sent in plain English? I mean, many of the enemy read English, Sir.”
“Mr. Cohen,” Captain Hinman said, “the enemy knows precisely what ships it lost. It knows how the attack was made. The enemy knows by now that we have had trouble with our torpedoes, too many enemy ships, have been hit by torpedoes that didn’t explode. So what do we have to hide from them? Now they’ll think we have our torpedo problem licked and the knowledge that we made that attack alone will probably shake them up and make them re-evaluate their defense measures. It should make them uncertain of what they are doing now and that will help us.” He took a sip from his coffee cup, eyeing the lean, swarthy man sitting across the table.
“I have other reasons, personal reasons, for sending this second message in plain language,” he continued.
“I want the other submarine captains on station to know how we made this attack. I want that damned hidebound Staff at Pearl to know they know! And I want to bring this exploder problem out in the open where the Staff at Pearl can’t hide it anymore!”
“I don’t quite understand, sir,” Cohen’s face was troubled.
“I keep forgetting you’re a Reserve, that you don’t know all the background on the torpedo exploders,” Hinman said. “You do know we had a lot of trouble the first patrol. Hell, nothing but trouble!
Final Harbor (The Silent War Book 1) Page 4